Embedded in a hectically disturbing day – the Mercury retrograde in Scorpio now fully underway and the databases at work crashing around my ears – during which we heard news of an armed cash in transit robbery in Soweto, a bank job in Vereeniging and a spectacular helicopter-and-taxi chase along the M1 in Joburg, as well as two countries’ leaders being jaw-droppingly stupid (or more likely, further Mercury retrograde fallout); during such a day, I recalled the evening before, and started to sift through my feelings.
Yesterday I got home to a backdrop of continual tweets about the imminent arrival of a massive thunderstorm, possibly two thunderstorms, with hail, which was sweeping across western and northern Joburg and was definitely heading our way.
We closed all windows, turned on a little wall heater and made sure that all tools were safely inside, preparing to sit out the storm.
But it never came.
I burned myrrh in a little water on my meditation alter and felt the deep, scouring, debilitating sobs rising up from within me.
This doesn’t happen very often – the sobbing, that is – and I tentatively blamed the wildly oscillating air pressure for my discomfort. But the looming sorrow refused to budge. I settled into bed with my current book, Veronica Goodchild‘s Eros and Chaos, and picked up on the chapter on The Orphan as an archetype.
That hit the spot, all right. As I read on, her description of the orphan child as a common archetype in humans – that abandoned, frightened misfit child who never really learns to feel at home here – resonated so strongly within that the sobs came out. All over the page.
I felt at once not so much abandoned by my parents as abandoned by myself. Dropped onto Earth and left to shift for myself in an alien, hostile, scary world.
And I felt, then, the transcendent part of me – my eternal spirit, if you will – knowing very well that it didn’t quite belong here. That it had arisen elsewhere, fallen into matter in the 3D matrix, and was now temporarily stuck, marooned far from home and all it knew and loved.
I felt this so strongly that I conclude I had hit a nerve in my psyche, and perhaps the psyche of every human on this planet.
As much as we often feel immanent, connected deeply to the Earth and all its Life – just so often we may feel apart from the flesh, a being of spirit, not soul. A living organism with origins beyond the veil, which sometimes call strongly to us.
And then I felt the mixing. An entwining of animal and spirit. An atomic fusion of the earthbound and the cosmos-wide.
And I thought: if spirit creates matter, falling into it as a spark from a roaring bonfire, perhaps then matter also secretes spirit, in a continual, Ourobourian creating-and-shaping-and-making which is the essence of Being.
It’s hard to separate the two, and maybe that is the point. Spirit and flesh hold, create and support each other, never ending, never beginning. In the mix.